


I Really Can't Stay

by QueerOnTilMorning



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Bill Denbrough, Hotel Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Memory Loss, Pre-IT Chapter Two (2019), Shameless Smut, Top Mike Hanlon, don't be mad at me, this doesn't have a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22034068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerOnTilMorning/pseuds/QueerOnTilMorning
Summary: There's a tall, good-looking guy in the audience at Bill Denbrough's reading. He won't stop looking at Bill, and Bill can't stop looking at him.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 29
Kudos: 197





	I Really Can't Stay

The tall man in the back of the room kept looking at Bill.

Everyone here was looking at Bill, of course; he was the one giving a reading and book signing. But the way this guy studied him was… different. Not like a fan, because he didn't seem to be paying attention to the section Bill was reading from his latest novel. Nor did he appear to be an aspiring writer panning for scraps of publishing wisdom, like many attendees of these events. He wasn't watching or listening for anything in particular. He was just staring at Bill's face.

A literary groupie? They certainly existed, and Bill had been famous enough to capture their attention for several years now, though he'd never taken advantage of it. He was married, after all. Even if his wife was shooting a film in Denmark and wouldn't be home for Christmas or New Year's.

If he was ever going to be tempted, which he wasn't, the tall guy would have been a strong contender. Bill was mostly attracted to women, but he wasn't _ dogmatic _ about it, and this guy was… well, he was hot. Flawless dark skin, neatly groomed short hair and beard, warm eyes and smile lines, even though his expression was serious. And tall. He was really tall. He looked like he could pick Bill up in one hand. Not that Bill was imagining that.

He kept stealing glances at the guy over the top of his dog-eared reading copy of  _ Shallow Graves, _ to the point that he stumbled over phrases he nearly had memorized. Every time Bill looked up, the tall man met his eyes, and though his expression never changed, Bill got the feeling he wanted to smile. Bill wished he would. Some kind of intuition was telling him this man had a gorgeous smile.

There was a short question-and-answer session after the reading. In Bill's experience, this was normally when people who wanted to seduce the famous author would make their presence known, asking questions that verged on too personal or slipping in a double entendre. He kind of hoped the tall man would raise his hand with "not really a question, more of a comment," which would immediately erase Bill's attraction to him.

Where had that thought come from? Bill wasn't attracted to this random stranger, no matter what his shoulders looked like in that sweater. He was a faithful husband. Which was why part of him was  _ not _ disappointed--and another part was _ not _ relieved--when the tall man sat through the Q and A in relaxed silence.

While Bill was signing books, the tall man hung back, near the door. Bill's eyes flicked toward him as often as they could, always half expecting that the spot would be empty, the tall man having disappeared into the freezing Maine night. He kept bracing for that disappointment, but every time he checked, the man was still there.

Finally, when the crowd had thinned to almost nothing, the tall man approached Bill's table. Bill reached for the stack of paperbacks beside him, but the man had a different book in his hands. Bill didn't immediately recognize the cover.

"You want me to sign that?" he said, smiling at the man and hoping he didn't sound flustered. Up close the guy was even hotter. His gray sweater looked soft in a way that made Bill think about pressing his hands against it, feeling the warmth of the body underneath. And he smelled good.

"Would you, please?" His voice was deep and mellow, his eyes steady on Bill's. Maybe if Bill kept looking, eventually he'd discover something about this guy that wasn't sexy. Maybe it would take a very long time. Maybe he was up to the challenge.

"What's your name?" Bill asked. It was a perfectly routine question for an author signing books to ask, and there was no reason it should make his neck flush. He took the hardcover book from the man's left hand--long squared-off fingers with short clean nails, no rings. It was only after staring for too long at his hand that Bill thought to examine the book he was holding, which turned out to be  _ The Dark Rapids _ with its dust jacket missing.

"I'm Mike," said the tall man, his eyes searching Bill's face as though waiting for a reaction.

"Mike," Bill repeated. He opened the book and wrote  _ Dear Mike _ on the title page, then couldn't think what to write next. He glanced up again. "You from around here?"

"From Maine, yeah, but not Portland," said Mike. "I drove down for this. I didn't want to miss my chance to see you." The earnest tone in his voice, the directness of his gaze--it all affected Bill in a way he didn't fully understand. It was as if his heart were a stone on a wet forest floor, and with just a few words Mike had flipped it over, revealing the tender living things beneath.

"Thank you for coming all this way," Bill said.

Mike smiled. Oh, Bill had guessed right; that smile was beautiful. "It was worth it," he said. "I wish you came to Maine more often."

This was actually the first time in Bill's writing career he had agreed to a tour date in Maine. He didn't consciously avoid it, but whenever an appearance in his home state was on the table, something else took priority. Except that this year, with Audra out of the country and no close friends or family to visit, a couple of nights in Maine sounded better than watching Christmas movies in an empty house.

"I should," he said now, smiling back at Mike. He still hadn't written anything in the book after the overly-familiar salutation, but Mike didn't seem in a hurry to get it back.

"You grew up in Maine, didn't you?" Mike asked.

"Yeah," Bill said vaguely, "up north a ways." He didn't like talking about his childhood. In fact, he didn't really remember much about his childhood, not the names of his teachers or the faces of his friends or the way his bedroom had looked. It was a trauma response, the therapist he saw in college had said, a way to compartmentalize the murder of his brother. She had suggested some approaches for trying to unlock those memories, and Bill had never made another appointment with her.

"Right, that's why you get checked out so much here," Mike said.

"Wh-what?" Oh, Christ, where did that come from? Bill hadn't stuttered in years. Was Mike checking him out? Had Mike noticed Bill checking  _ him _ out?

Mike saw Bill's face and gave a laugh of surprise. "Oh, I didn't mean--I'm a librarian. I meant people check out your books a lot. You know, because you're like a local hero."

"Wow," said Bill, struggling to regain his composure. "That's really cool. I mean, it's flattering. But it's cool that you're a librarian, too. I, uh, I love libraries."  _ I love libraries? Real fucking smooth, Denbrough. _ He could kick himself in the dick right now.

"Me too," said Mike, ignoring the fact that Bill was the biggest jackass ever to walk the earth, which was nice of him. "When I was a kid, libraries were the place that felt safe, you know? It was like--if something didn't make sense, that's where the answers would be. Even if I couldn't find them. Just being surrounded by all those books, knowing all that knowledge was there."

"Yeah," said Bill.  _ Oh, such eloquence. No wonder you're a famous writer. _ "Libraries were a refuge for the weird kids. I remember that, too."

"A place for the losers," said Mike. Bill could tell he meant both of them, but he wasn't insulted by it. On Mike's lips, the word "losers" sounded comforting, even affectionate. Bill realized he was staring at Mike's lips. He couldn't help it; for one, overwhelmingly vivid instant he imagined what they might taste like.

He saw Mike's mouth open as if in prelude to a question, saw the tip of Mike's tongue for just a moment as it worried the crease of his lower lip. Bill felt hot all over.  _ What the hell? _ He was thirty-seven years old, not some horny teenager. Why did looking at Mike make him feel so wound up and uncertain and young?

Bill squeezed his eyes shut, trying to restart his brain. "Sorry, man," he said. "I spaced out for a second there. Long day."

"No problem," said Mike immediately. "I should let you get out of here." He reached for his book, which Bill still hadn't finished signing.

"Sorry," Bill said again. What a fucking impression he must be making. "I just…" He wanted to write something that Mike would remember, words he'd trace with his fingertips on a bitter winter night like this, thinking about Bill. Not about William Denbrough, the famous novelist, but about Bill, the man he'd looked in the eyes, the man he'd called a loser like he was inviting him to join a secret club.

Bill wanted Mike to leave with something worthwhile, an inscription that would make him glad he'd driven all this way, even in the snow. But even more than that, Bill wanted Mike to _ not leave. _

The rest of his night flashed before him like a vision, if visions were grim and boring. Room service and movies in an anonymous hotel, drinking too much from the minibar so the ringing in his ears would drown out the silence, jerking off in a joyless rush, trying to make himself think about Audra. And in the morning, the long flight home to LA, where he'd do the same thing over again.

"What are you doing after this?" he asked, instantly regretting the impulse. It was weird, it was too much, it was desperate. Now Mike was going to back away and disappear forever, taking this exhilarating feeling with him.

Instead, Mike smiled again, his deep brown eyes locked on Bill's. "Driving home, I suppose," he said. "But I wouldn't mind putting that off a little longer."

That was almost an opening, wasn't it? "Can I buy you dinner?" Bill said in a rush, before he could think twice and stop himself. "I mean, you came all this way, and… I don't know, I really appreciate it, and my publisher is paying for my meals anyway, so we could…"

"That would be nice," said Mike, and Bill relaxed enough to take a full breath for the first time in what felt like half an hour. "Want me to drive?"

They bundled into their coats and scarves and Mike led the way to a huge blue pickup truck parked close to the bookstore. It was so not what Bill pictured a librarian driving that it surprised a chuckle out of him. "How are things back on the farm?" he asked.

Mike whipped his head around at that, a strange look on his face. "Bill, did you just--?" He caught himself before finishing the question, looking at Bill carefully, as though trying to piece together a puzzle.

"It was a joke," Bill said uncertainly. "Because your truck looks very rugged for a librarian." Had he offended Mike somehow?

Making a visible effort to relax, Mike nodded. "Bookmobile duty can be more dangerous than you think," he said, with a smile that looked forced. Then he opened the passenger door, offering Bill a hand to help him up. It was purely utilitarian, Bill told himself; he was short, Mike's truck was tall, the parking lot was icy, and he was grateful for the boost.

But he was also, even through layers of gloves, thrilled to have felt Mike's hand touch his own.

_ For fuck's sake, _ he snarled inwardly.  _ Calm your married ass down. _

Mike's truck clanked and rattled as he started it up, and the air from the heating vents was dusty and cold, but it took to the snow-slick, ice-rutted streets like they were open highway on a summer day. Mike was unfazed by the weather, driving with one big hand at the top of the steering wheel and talking the whole time. He didn't seem hyperactive or anxious, like he was trying to fill the air with words. He just talked, like Bill was an old friend he was happy to catch up with.

"I actually did grow up on a farm," he said. "That's why I was surprised when you said that."

"Why didn't you go into the family business?" Bill asked.

"I couldn't deal with the instability," said Mike. "Farming is so unpredictable. One year you're comfortable, the next you're broke."

"Whereas librarians--"

"Are always broke, yeah, way fewer surprises." Bill laughed, and Mike shot him a satisfied smile.

Neither of them knew the area well, and it was too cold to dick around reading Yelp reviews, so Bill suggested the diner across the street from his hotel. He felt bad when he realized that Mike didn't eat meat, but Mike insisted that it was a perfect night for a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup, the only vegetarian option on the menu.

It was so comfortable, sitting there talking with Mike. Bill thought again that it felt more like reconnecting with a friend than like a-- _don't you dare call this a "first date," not even in your head._ _You have a fucking wife._

Actually, that was the one way this _ didn't _ feel like talking to an old friend. If they were just buddies shooting the shit, Bill wouldn't be carefully avoiding any topic of conversation that might lead back to Audra.

Mike must know Bill was married, right? If he followed Bill's career closely enough to know he grew up in Maine, there was no way he could have missed the much-publicized wedding to an Oscar-nominated movie star. But Mike sidestepped the issue just as nimbly as Bill did, not mentioning Audra, or the abstract concept of romantic partnership, even once. Bill wondered if Mike was married. His hands were ringless, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. For some reason, Bill's eyes kept wandering back to those hands.

He tried to tell himself it was just the tour getting to him; the boredom, the ever-changing schedule, the feeling of always being looked at but never seen. Of course, after weeks of that, he was getting touch-hungry and stir crazy. It wasn't surprising that as soon as he laid eyes on someone reasonably attractive and friendly, he couldn't get enough.

But this was more than just infatuation born of loneliness. Bill was a writer; he spent a  _ lot _ of time peering through a microscope at his own emotions. He knew what a crush felt like. The way his skin tingled and his lungs felt tight when he looked at Mike, yes, okay, that could be chalked up to dumb, animal attraction, but something was happening at a deeper level, too. Something that was like arriving in a new place and knowing it would one day be home.

It had been so long since Bill had been anywhere that felt like home.

Bill dawdled over the meal, drawing it out with a slice of pie he wasn't really hungry for and a cup of decaf coffee, but the snow was coming down harder outside and he knew he had to let Mike go soon. Finally, reluctantly, he pushed his chair back and said "You probably need to hit the road, huh?"

Mike stood up too. "I can drop you off at your door," he suggested.

Bill shrugged. "It's across the street. I'll be fine."

Feeling worn out and utterly overwhelmed by the long blank night ahead, Bill held the door open for Mike and walked him out to his truck. Fat snowflakes spiraled lazily down from the gray sky. Jingling his keys in his palm, Mike gave Bill another long, contemplative look.

Bill remembered he'd never finished signing Mike's book. "Hey," he said breathlessly, because it would buy him another minute, and right now that felt like everything.

But Mike didn't let him finish. "Bill," he said with that same thoughtful expression, and Bill thought he had never heard his own name sound so sweet. Mike reached out a hand--Bill saw a perfect snowflake land on the tip of his gloved thumb--and touched Bill's shoulder.

"I really fucking missed you," Mike said in a low voice.

Bill opened his mouth to ask  _ What is that supposed to mean? _ But instead, he heard himself say "I missed you too."

He didn't know why he said it, but he meant it with all his heart.

With the sigh of a man reaching the end of his endurance, Mike stepped forward, cupped Bill's face in his hands, and kissed him.

In the night's clawing cold, Mike's lips were the softest, warmest thing Bill had ever felt. The hum of second-guessing and self-recrimination in his mind stilled; all he could think was  _ yes, this, here. _ He moved closer to Mike, sliding his arms around his waist--or where he assumed his waist must be, under the heavy wool coat.

Mike sighed into Bill's mouth, a sweet, yearning sound, and there was one last moment where Bill could pull away before crossing an irredeemable line, where he could refuse to kiss Mike back, apologize for the misunderstanding, go home to his wife.

Bill pushed his tongue into Mike's mouth and fucking  _ pole vaulted _ over that line.

They kissed slow and deep, exploring each other, Mike's hand sliding down Bill's neck until his thumb nestled in the hollow of Bill's throat, just inside his collar. Mike's lips burned on Bill's as the cold burned everywhere else. He could stand here exactly like this forever. He couldn't wait another goddamn second to tear all Mike's clothes off.

With one gentle hand, Mike tilted Bill's head, opening his mouth wider and dragging his tongue against the roof of Bill's mouth. Bill shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. Oh, this was good. This didn't feel like a first kiss; it felt perfect and natural, like muscle memory. So easy, it was like they'd done this a hundred times before.

And then Bill froze, digging his fingers into Mike's hips not out of desire, but because otherwise he would lose his balance completely as the past broke over him like a wave. Because, of course, he _ had _ kissed Mike Hanlon before.

Details appeared like ink scrawling across a pristine page. He remembered Derry. He remembered Pennywise. He remembered his friends, and how they'd fought for their lives in the filthy water beneath that filthy town. And, Christ, he remembered Mike.

The first time had been a few months after Beverly moved away and stopped calling. Mike had been in Bill's room, lounging on the bed while Bill sat on the floor, pretending to work on math homework but unable to focus. He'd asked Mike to take a look at a short story he wrote, because Mike was the smartest of all his friends and would know whether it was good or not. Now, listening to Mike rifle the handwritten pages, Bill felt scraped raw and exposed, and he almost wished he'd never said anything.

Finally, the paper-rustling noises stopped. Bill's head snapped up, searching for Mike's eyes, trying to read his expression. "W-well?" he asked.

"Give me a second," said Mike. "I'm thinking."

Bill lowered his gaze, feeling chastised. After a moment, Mike said, "I think it's really good."

"Yeah?" Bill couldn't hide the flush of delight that reddened his cheeks.

"Yeah." Mike nodded. "I like the spaceship captain. She feels really… real. Like a person you could know." Bill said nothing, too busy trying to suppress a dopey grin. "I think you need to say something about the supernova gun earlier in the story, so it doesn't come out of nowhere at the end."

"That makes sense."

"It's good, Bill," Mike repeated, smiling. "It's really good. You're a writer."

Bill buried his head in his hands. Something about the way Mike said that made him feel shaky, almost on the verge of tears. It was a nice feeling, he thought, but there was just so  _ much _ of it he didn't know what to do.

He heard the bed creak as Mike climbed off it to sit beside Bill on the floor. "Hey," Mike said, and when Bill looked up, Mike kissed him on the lips.

It was over quickly, but it was unmistakably more than just a peck. "Why'd you do that?" Bill asked, his head spinning.

Mike shrugged. "To see if I'd like it."

"Did you?"

"Yeah, I did," said Mike.

Bill smiled nervously. "Me too."

That was the most they ever talked about it, but it kept happening, in whatever little pockets of time they found to be alone together. In their bedrooms, in the clubhouse, underwater in the quarry. Once in the bathroom at the movie theater, while they were both on dates with their girlfriends. Bill didn't let himself ask what it meant--about him, about Mike, about the two of them together--because the answers might have gotten in the way.

The last time they kissed was the day Bill left Derry for good. Mike came over to help him load up his car, and their lips brushed, barely more than a graze, while Bill's parents were inside gathering more boxes. In that sliver of a moment, Bill looked into Mike's eyes and finally let himself realize that he wanted more--and the way Mike looked back said that he did, too.

But it was too late. Bill's dad was coming out the door, shouting that they were behind schedule and needed to hit the road.

"I'll see you," Mike said.

"I'll come back to visit," Bill said with the force of a promise, but of course he never did.

With a sob, Bill wrenched himself back into the present and away from Mike's kiss. Mike's eyes widened with understanding.

"Mikey," Bill said, breathing hard, not letting go of the other man.

"Big Bill," Mike said back. "Shit. I'm so sorry--"

"You're sorry?" Bill felt tears of rage and self-loathing rise behind his eyes. "You? I fucking  _ left you there. _ I drove away and I never thought about you again. You're saying sorry to _ me? _ " He knew his bitterness didn't really make sense, but it had him in its embrace as surely as Mike did.

"It's not your fault," Mike insisted. "It's what Derry does. It erases itself from your memory, and no one who leaves ever comes back."

"I left you there," said Bill again.

"I chose to stay," said Mike. "And I chose to come here tonight. I'm the one who stirred things up, who risked reminding you of all that shit, just so I could…"

"What?" Bill said, suddenly conscious again of how close their faces were, Mike's breath rising in the cold night like smoke from a hearth fire, welcoming and warming Bill's tired bones. "So you could what?"

Instead of answering, Mike kissed him again.

In an instant, the fire went from comforting to consuming, flames leaping hungrily in Bill's groin and the palms of his hands. He sucked on Mike's lower lip, yanked at Mike's coat, trying to pull their bodies closer together than the layers between them would allow. Mike's hand slid up the back of Bill's neck, fingers curling into his hair and tugging his head back. His tongue explored Bill's mouth as though he might find all the years they'd missed together hidden there.

"Don't go home," Bill pleaded.

"No," murmured Mike, pulling away just enough to cover Bill's cheeks and jaw with kisses. "No, I won't. I'm here."

"Stay with me," said Bill, and pointed to the hotel across the street. He knew, vaguely, that every moment he spent with Mike was compounding his initial, perhaps unforgivable transgression, but it didn't occur to him to stop. It didn't  _ feel _ like he was doing something wrong. He had loved Mike first, after all. Mike's name had been written on his heart all these years, even when Bill couldn't read it.

Bill took Mike's hand and led him across the road. There were no cars out tonight, nothing but the snow and the streetlights on the snow and the cradling silence of the snow. That same protective blanket of solitude seemed to linger around them even as they entered the hotel lobby; they saw no one, spoke to no one, barely heard their own footsteps on the stairs. Bill drifted in the quiet, half entranced.

The next sound to reach his awareness was that of his own head hitting plaster. Two steps into the room, Mike had picked him up and  _ slammed _ him against the wall, and now he had his face buried in Bill's neck, licking, sucking, biting. Bill clung to Mike's shoulders, gasping "yeah, yeah."

Mike shrugged out of his coat, leaving it in a damp heap on the floor, then pushed Bill's coat off his shoulders. Still icy from the night air, Bill's skin tingled as he adjusted to the heat of the room. He ran his hands over Mike's chest, the gray sweater even softer than he'd imagined, highlighting every perfect line of the torso beneath.

Then Mike's mouth was on Bill's again, kissing him tenderly, only the very top of his tongue grazing Bill's lips as he quickly unbuttoned his shirt. Bill thought he might have popped a button off, but couldn't bring himself to care. He pushed his hands under Mike's sweater, and Christ, his body felt even better than it looked. Mike gulped for air as Bill's fingers teased over his nipples, whining a little when Bill took his hands away to yank Mike's sweater over his head.

Half-naked and gasping, they collided again. Bill couldn't fucking believe how hard he was. No, he'd been hard five minutes ago. Now he was nearing impossible. He groaned shamelessly, rubbing up on Mike's leg.

Mike scooped Bill up, one arm around his waist, the other hand lifting his thigh. Instinctively, Bill wrapped his legs around Mike. Oh, that felt so much better. He rocked his hard-on against Mike's washboard abs, _what the fuck did he do in that library?_ Mike was hard, too, his erection just grazing the cleft of Bill's ass. They kept kissing, deep and wet and frantic, Bill's face red by now from beard burn.

"Please," he whined, legs tightening around Mike until the muscles trembled. "Mikey,  _ please. _ "

Bill didn't even know what he was begging for, but Mike seemed to. Without apparent effort, he carried Bill across the room to the bed and lowered him onto his back, bracing himself with a hand beside Bill's head. Here, with Bill's legs still locked around his waist, Mike rolled his hips slowly, grinding their cocks together and pushing little gasps out of Bill's mouth.

"You feel so good," said Mike, his lips brushing Bill's ear, the vibrations echoing down his spine and through his body. How had he lived without this all these years?

He dug his fingers into Mike's back, feeling the way the muscles flexed as Mike arched against him. "Need you," Bill groaned.

Mike lifted his head to look in Bill's eyes. Bill's gaze faltered, the intensity almost too much to stand. "How do you need me?"

Bill knew he was blushing. "I have some lube," he said, nodding toward the toiletry bag on the nightstand. Usually, thinking of the travel bottle of lube and the lonely, hurried masturbation it facilitated made him depressed, but tonight it felt like the stars aligning in his favor. "You can--you know."

Mike's hips stilled, his body tense between Bill's legs. "I can what? What do you want me to do?"

"You can fuck me," Bill breathed. Mike's face betrayed no emotion, but his cock  _ jumped _ . "I want you--Mike, I want you to fuck me."

Mike let out a long breath, resting his forehead against Bill's. "Yes," he said simply, and something in Bill's chest grew wings.

He felt cold when Mike climbed off the bed, adrift without that grounding weight above him, but it was good to watch Mike from a distance, too. It was good to really look at him, his long, gorgeously defined body, nearly hairless except for the dark trail that started between his pecs and disappeared into the waistband of his jeans.

"Jesus, you're beautiful," said Bill. "What are you, addicted to the gym? Why the hell do you need muscles like that in a library?"

Mike rifled through the bag. "Couldn't just moon around town waiting for you to come back," he said. "A man needs hobbies." He said it lightly, with a grin, but Bill felt the sadness under the surface of the words, the long years with nothing but time to kill.

"I missed you so much," he said.

Bottle in hand, Mike came back to bed. He set the lube on a pillow, within easy reach, and leaned down to press an open-mouthed kiss to Bill's hip. "Oh," Bill said softly. Mike's eyes flicked up to his, then back down, and he swept his hot tongue over the spot where his lips had just been.

"Never stopped wanting you," Mike said.

"Me too," said Bill, "even when I didn't know it."

Mike kissed him again, just below the navel this time, then unbuttoned Bill's jeans. There was a bit of confusion when Bill realized he needed to kick off his boots first, but in moments Mike had him stripped bare. He lay back on the duvet and savored the way Mike looked at him, like a hungry man coming home to Christmas dinner.

"Hey there, Big Bill," Mike said meaningfully, and Bill threw an arm over his face, laughing.

"Shut  _ up, _ " he said. "Take your fucking pants off."

Mike was quick to comply. Oh, he looked so  _ good.  _ His thighs were a dream. His cock--for a moment Bill couldn't breathe, stunned by the beauty of it: slightly flared and shading to nearly purple at the tip, standing straight up against his flat, perfect stomach.

"Jesus," Bill said again, then reached for the lube. "Hey, would you run this under warm water in the sink?"

Taking the bottle back, Mike turned away. That had been Bill's real objective, and it was worth it. Mike's ass more than lived up to the bar set by his shoulders and chest. Bill gave a sigh of satisfaction.

Mike looked back over his shoulder. "Did you just want me to walk away so you could check out my ass?" he asked, mock indignant.

"I absolutely did," said Bill.

Mike practically pounced back onto the bed, kissing Bill fiercely. "Just for that, you get cold lube," he said. He raked his fingers through Bill's hair, and Bill groaned, pushing his head against Mike's hand.

"Don't care," he murmured. "Let's fucking go."

Mike slid down his body, spreading Bill's thighs wide and settling between them. Bill could practically come just from  _ looking _ at him this way, his eyes so dark, his lips swollen. "Tell me if it's too much," Mike said, and Bill trembled at the feel of his beard--rough, but still soft--brushing against his thigh.

The trembling turned into shaking as Mike's slick finger traced slow circles around his rim. "Yeah," Bill said reverently. It had been so long since someone touched him this way. Audra had tried once, but she--actually, no, he didn't need to be thinking about Audra right now. "Mike," he whispered instead.

"Bill," Mike replied, and eased a finger into him. Bill forced himself to lie still, to just  _ feel _ it without pushing back, to relish the almost-novel sensation of being entered. Mike was watching him intently, waiting for permission to venture further.

"More," said Bill.

Gently but efficiently, Mike opened him: stretching and caressing, whispering encouragement and kissing Bill's thighs. Within minutes, Bill was past the reach of language, in a place where nothing existed but Mike's touch. It was overwhelming, a feeling too intense to qualify as simple pleasure. The shallowest thrusts evoked shivers that racked his entire body. When Mike had three fingers buried inside him to the hilt, and then started  _ curling _ them, Bill let out a strangled shout that rattled the walls--or was he the only one shuddering? Mike fucked him deeper, his fingertips hitting the perfect spot until tears pooled in Bill's eyes.

"Come here," Bill managed to say, his voice in tatters.

Mike pulled out of him carefully--though Bill still whimpered at the absence--and crawled up his body, scattering kisses on Bill's belly and ribs as he went. "Like this?" he said when they were face to face.

Bill took Mike's head in his hands and kissed him hard, tongues and teeth colliding. "Just like this," he said.

Mike reached for the lube again, rubbing it between his hands to warm it, then stroking it onto himself. That sight alone made Bill catch his breath, enthralled, his cock leaking hot onto his belly.

Belatedly, he wondered whether Mike had a condom. He supposed he should ask. But then again… he didn't really want the answer to be yes. He wanted to feel _ Mike, _ wanted Mike to feel him.  _ Fuck it _ , he decided.

Mike lifted one of Bill's legs, pressing his thigh against his chest. He lined up the tip of his own cock with Bill's slick, spread hole, and the contact made Bill clench his teeth to keep from crying out again.

"Okay?" said Mike.

"Perfect," Bill said, craning his neck up to lick a kiss from Mike's lips. Mike wrapped his broad hand around the back of Bill's raised thigh, smiled down at Bill, and guided himself inside.

"Oh fuck, oh shit, oh my _ God, _ " Bill growled. The fullness was incredible, just shy of too much. Mike hadn't  _ looked  _ ridiculously endowed--his dick was perfectly proportional with the rest of him--but of course, the rest of him was goddamn  _ huge. _ Bill's jaw hung slack as he tried to relax around the astonishing sensation. There was a little pain at first, but mostly there was just--so fucking much of him, stretching Bill in ways he'd never experienced, touching places no one else ever had.

"Sure you're okay?" Mike asked.

"Fucking amazing," Bill said.

"Should I keep going?"

"Son of a bitch," Bill moaned. "There's  _ more? _ " He gasped for breath, then nodded, wrapping the leg Mike wasn't holding around his back. "All right, give it to me."

Slowly but thoroughly, Mike did. When he bottomed out, Bill sucked in air through clenched teeth. "Jesus, Mikey," he said. "Why does a librarian need a dick like this?" Mike's laugh purred through both their bodies, making Bill gasp again.

Mike stayed like that, buried deep inside but perfectly still, until Bill thought he was going to scream. He didn't have much room to maneuver, but with his leg around Mike's back for leverage, he pushed his hips up. "I'm ready," he panted. "Please--please fuck me."

Mike pulled out slowly, then _ slammed _ back into him. Bill cried out, and Mike did it again, and again, sweat rolling down his neck as he tenderly, sweetly pounded Bill into the mattress. Bill's hands slid up Mike's back, down his arms, into his hair, reaching desperately for a reliable handhold, but it didn't help--with every thrust of Mike's hips, he was completely unmoored.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Bill swore, feeling the heat building in his groin, his orgasm still a little way off but definitely  _ there, _ waiting to utterly annihilate him. Mike didn't say anything, just breathed open-mouthed and desperate, his fingers digging into Bill's thigh so hard there would be bruises in the morning.

Bill stared up into Mike's face, his mind a haze, all his defenses demolished. "Mike," he said. "Mike, I love you."

Mike's eyes were enormous, the pupils huge and black. For a moment, Bill was afraid that he'd gone too far.

With a gorgeous, destroyed sound, Mike buried his face in the crook of Bill's neck. "I love you," he said back. "I've loved you my whole fucking life."

"Mike," Bill said helplessly. It was all he could think to say.

"Bill," Mike said, his voice thick with emotion, and then he started moving again, long, slow,  _ deep _ strokes. "You feel so goddamn good. Wanted you for so long." He was speeding up now, his words and his thrusts both coming faster, gathering steam. "Oh, God, Bill, I wanted you like this since I can remember, always knew I was yours, tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," said Bill.

Mike groaned like a fault line rupturing, and set to work absolutely fucking Bill's brains out. Sobbing with pleasure, Bill held on for dear life. It was all he could do.

The heat inside him grew, every line of his body kindling, every nerve ending wired directly to his core. It wasn't just Mike's cock inside him; it was Mike's weight and the sound of his breath and the smell of his sweat, flooding all Bill's senses, ravaging him in the best possible way. Trapped between their bodies, his own cock burned for release. "Mike," he pleaded. "I need to--oh, fuck--"

Immediately, Mike shifted his weight, propping himself up with one arm so his other hand was free to wrap around Bill's cock. Like everything else about him, his hand was  _ big. _ "I'm so close," Bill panted.

"Yeah," Mike murmured, his hand pumping in time with his hips. "Yeah, please, Bill, I want to feel you coming with me inside you."

Roaring, Bill let go, riding out an explosion that felt so good it hurt. Mike stroked him through it, whispering "yeah, yeah, yeah."

When Bill reached the other side, soaked and spent, Mike slowed his thrusts, leaning down to kiss Bill's mouth. "I'm gonna pull out now," he said softly.

"Why?" Bill whimpered.

"So that I can come all over you," Mike said.

"Oh, fuck, yes."

He couldn't stifle a sob as Mike slid out, but it was worth it for the sight of him balanced above Bill, his perfect hand working his perfect cock until he came in a hot rush over Bill's stomach and chest. 

Finally Mike collapsed beside him, all strength gone from both their bodies. Bill curled up against the broad, comforting warmth of Mike, not caring that they were both a mess. He had never felt so at peace.  _ It was worth it, _ he thought.  _ It was all worth it if I get to have this. _

"I love you," he sighed.

"I love you too," said Mike, kissing the sweaty tangle of Bill's hair.

"I'm not going to forget again," Bill said.

But to that, Mike said nothing.

Because of course, by the time Bill's flight landed in LA the next afternoon, he had no idea that he'd ever met a man named Mike Hanlon. And he wouldn't think of him again for another three years.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year!


End file.
